Despite the tragic, untimely and deeply wasteful death of David Foster Wallace, this past weekend was one of the great ones. I was reunited with several excellent friends for the purpose of attending a wedding. The wedding was unusually romantic, consummated under a full moon at a villa encircled by big, slouching trees, of the olive green-leafed variety.
Two of my friends stayed with me for a little while, resulting in many excellent talks and the kind of life affirming days and nights that you could, and probably should, plan your life around.
We talked much about writing and stories. They reminded me to two specific and different aspects of writing:
1. How to do it, you ask? “Write toward the shame.” –Victoria Redel
2. A perfect narrative arc, drama, tension, an ah ha! ending.
For Sale: baby shoes, never worn.
A story Hemingway is said to have scribbled on a bar napkin, and later called his best story.
Here’s a Wired article that asked other writers to do the same, and in general, they fared less well. It’s harder than it looks.
This Monday feels like the exact moment when summer ends and the cooler beginning of fall comes; as the heat fades, you feel a bit an ache in some distant chamber and a bit of anticipation elsewhere.